Ultrasound

Henry Thomas Clark, 10/7/14

I. Your Picture

We've framed an ultrasound   of you and Peter

holding hands   (or almost) in the womb,

your moon-bright arms   crossed in a black balloon

with week, and weights,   and heights in millimeters

penciled on the side.   We say it's good

that he, at least, was with you   when you died,

that unlike us   you'll never know the why

of being lonely   or what naked falsehood

feels like in one's mind.   You see, it's false

to say your death   was somehow grace. It's grace

that spared Cain's life   and later gave Eve other

sons, despite creation's   wastes and faults.

I wish you could have known   love's aftertastes.

I wish you'd had a chance   to hate your brother.

II. Your Mirror

I wish you'd had a chance   to hate your brother's

charming smile,   how it would softly chafe

your teeth; his eyes,   the way they'd misbehave

above your cheeks; his tongue   might bait your stutter.

Nights, in the mirror   you'd have seen your lovers

kiss his lips, and mornings   as you'd shave

you'd nick yourself   and wonder who forgave

you when the face you shared   caused him to suffer.

No. No childhood scars   will make it clearer

which you are.   We'll have a future tense

for Peter, while you're left   at one night less

than one night old,   my son without a likeness,

whom I can't hold   or half-behold, condensed

to shadows in the nursery's   lightless mirror.

III. Your Shadows

The shadows in the nursery's   lifeless mirror

owe their nights to no one;   you were gone

before the lights   could pin those umbras on.

If now they gather here   in tangles sheerer

than a nest of nylon   hose, yet nearer

flesh than atmosphere,   they must be drawn

as I am by the dimmed   lamp's denouement—

this stupid wish your guise   might still cohere or

that some phantom wisp   could throw its shade

and let the smallest   sliver of you loom

against the wall. Instead,   daybreak exhumes

this catch of shadows   till they've all been weighed

and matched to furniture.   My shape has stayed

to cast your name   into the empty room.

IV: Your Room

I cast your name   into the empty room

and make the place more   empty still: the chair's

clean seat adopts   a misanthropic air

that mocks the bureau's   sympathetic bloom.

I watch the wooden crib   as it's consumed

by morning, bar by bar,   till crying downstairs

lets me know   how far this solitary

staring has erased   me in the gloom.

Your healthy twin   is hungry, tired, parched,

and wet, or simply   needing to be held,

and yet I still don't move.   I feel compelled

to tell the room   it's missing you, to mark

the vacuum with a few   more decibels

of Henry, Henry,   Henry Thomas Clark.

V: Your Names

My Henry, Henry, Henry   Thomas Clark:

your name's an ingot—   if I even think it

after midnight   in the bedroom's dark

the kiln my mind is   fires to sing it

out of shape, to turn   its sounds to trinkets

or just melt it down   to question marks

so I can ladle up   that pink and drink it

till my ears drown   and the dreaming starts.

Your sister's "Gemma-   Lemon" in her fruit

pajamas, Georgie-Boy's   my little buddy,

and Pete these days   is simply "the recruit."

Beneath my desk   you'd be "my understudy,"

"Huffy Hank" in tears,   or "Huckleputty"

sweetly teething   on your mom's Bluetooth.

VI: Your Urn

Tonight Pete's teething   on your mom's Bluetooth.

He found the scissors   to derange his hair.

We've left the gate   down and he's on the stairs,

or else he's scrambled   up the dollhouse roof.

The crumpled books   and cracker crumbs are proof

he's loose … disordered   blocks, a toppled chair. …

Some days he's absolutely   everywhere

until I wish him gone...